


Dreams can't hurt us(?)

by Caliras



Series: Dyslexic Stan [4]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst, Dyslexia, Dyslexic Stan, Homelessness, Hopeful Ending, Past Child Abuse, References to Drugs, Sad Grunkle Stan, Self-Hatred, Stabbing, Stan is dyslexic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-23
Updated: 2018-03-23
Packaged: 2019-04-06 18:37:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14063004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caliras/pseuds/Caliras
Summary: Stan gets the feeling something is wrong. He didn't expect his report card to be on the table.





	Dreams can't hurt us(?)

**Author's Note:**

> This had child abuse in it! Even though there's nothing graphic, please be warned if you don't like that type of stuff!

Something felt wrong. Almost as if he’d forgot to turn the stove off, only to remember it an hour later. Leaping off his bed, he stared at the bunk bed for a long moment before turning and creeping down the stairs. Slipping off the bottom step, he stalked into the kitchen, when a flash of white caught his eye. He moved cautiously towards the countertop, dread prickling his skin even as he denied what he saw. A report card. His report card. He felt like he couldn’t breathe, they’d seen it. Stan felt a presence behind him, he turned slowly, hoping it was his mother, or better yet, his brother. His hopes stopped short as his eyes landed upon a suit and a tall frame. His eyes slowly rose while the rest of his body froze, too scared to move in front of the imposing figure _who had just seen his report card_. A slow finger tapped once against large, crossed arms, and Stan took a step back.

“Son. Do you know what is on that table.”

He couldn’t respond, his eyes threatened to well up with boiling tears. A softball sized lump made itself at home in his throat, content to choke any words he might’ve made. He wouldn’t have spoken anyways. His dad heaved a sigh before coming closer. He knew that sigh, he felt his posture go tense, but he didn’t dare run. He could never run. He tried, once. But that was enough, he could barely move the next day. Bruises prevented most movement, and brought agony. He still had to go to school. He always had to go to school and he hated it. Everyone called him an idiot, and maybe he was, but they didn’t need to rub it in his face! So what if he couldn’t read! It’s not his fault! … Probably.

His father held out his hand as soon as he got close enough, and Stan knew better than to disobey, so he took it. Suddenly, he felt disconnected, watching his father lead him to where he would ~~receive punishment~~ learn. The scene around him changed, melting or sliding into place. He felt it as is rippled and changed, it was like watching water flow over moving gears. Suddenly, he was in an alley that reeked like dead skunk mixed with rotting eggs. It looked no better than it smelled. A man stood over him, holding out thin packets, a stone face looking down at him.

“You think this is enough!? You said you could bring more than anyone else! This won’t do.” A cold voice demanded, coming from the man holding the packets, before he threw them in his bag, disgusted.

“Please, I-I promise to do better next time! People got suspicious of me, I couldn’t bring more, but I’ll do better next time!” He knew he was pleading, begging really, but he couldn’t stop.

This was the first job he’d had in months! His chance to get something to eat without stealing it! A chance to be full again! And yet, they had caught on to him. He wasn’t sure how, but they knew. His meal plans were washed away, and he could already feel hunger pangs shooting through him.

The man tsked at him before walking up to him, the smell of cigarettes heavy on his breath, “Do you really think we’d give you a second chance? We’ve been in this business for some time now, and there is no weak link.”

His words hadn’t quite sunk in yet, but the knife did. Burning spread across his side, and he looked down at the knife that jutted out of him, horrified.

The man walked back to his car, wiping down his hands, “No loose ends. Nothing personal.”

He got into the car and sped off leaving Stan, who stared a moment longer at the cheap knife, thinking numbly, ‘Of course it’s cheap, if he’s just going to leave it’. Yanking it out, he felt fire shoot through his nerves, pain the only thing he could feel. As he (barely) came back, he noticed someone screaming. Oh. That was just him. He looked at the knife to feel horror spread among the pain. It was serrated. Of course it was. He’d left him to pull out his knife. His serrated knife. Tissue hung on the knife, blood dripping off it irregularly.

He felt his hand rise up to the wound, gently touching it. The moment he touched it, a spike of intense pain flashed through him. Screaming he hit the ground, knife flying out of his hand as he doubled over in pain. Every second became an hour, laced with agony and fear. He couldn’t feel anything else. He couldn’t breathe. He could only scream. The world crumbled around him as his vision faded, eyes closing against his will. He passed out.

Stan jolted awake in a cold sweat, his heart hammered against chest, beating against his ribcage as he sat up. His eyesight came back slowly, morphing into the familiar room in the shack. He was in the shack. He was safe. His heart no longer trying to escape, he groaned and flumped backwards with a sigh, shaking slightly. For a while, he just stared at the ceiling, distant. His arm felt heavier than lead as he lifted it, scrubbing at his face. After a moment, he let it drift down, ghosting over the spot that bruises used to accumulate, the place that seemed to attract his father's wrath before settling on the old scar on his side.

Honestly? He felt like he deserved to be stabbed. He wasn’t good enough. It was just another lesson. It wasn’t the first to draw blood. He never was good at learning, so he had to be taught lessons over and over. He still remembered, clear as day, when he woke up in the hospital, unable to pay for his treatment. He had escaped, too afraid of what they’d do when they found out he was far too broke to pay for it. Besides, he had been smuggling drugs, and he didn’t want to go to prison again. Remembering what the day was, he slung an arm over his eyes. It was his first day of meeting the doctors for his dyslexia. They had to figure out how bad it was before the could help him. Admittedly, he was nervous.

What if they found out who he was? That he’d ended up in a hospital far too many times to count, unable to pay? But able to run. Would they make him pay for everything before sending him off to prison? Many of the times he’d been in the hospital, it had been from gang-related incidents. One gun-related injury would be easier to write off but several? If they found his medical record, he’d be sent to jail with suspicions of him being in a gang. Yet… he was still willing to go. Mabel was relentless in making him go, he found around ten alarms set on his phone before going to bed. He was sure she’d find a way to get more ‘alarms’ too.

Dipper seemed to be proud of him, and insisted in coming, joined by Mabel. Ford… Ford was silent, so Stan wasn’t sure what to think about that. He kept meeting his gaze, then glancing away. Ford had tried to say something, but his mouth just kept opening and closing, like a fish, until he turned and walked away. Glancing at the clock beside his bed, he sighed and swung his legs over the bed. Walking to the door, he smelt pancakes burning. Pausing at the door, he hesitantly opened the door, to be greeted with a flash of smoke.

Mabel came running up to him, charred, sugary circles on a plate she offered him, “You got this Grunkle Stan!”

He smiled at her, taking the plate (choosing to get rid of it later) and watched as glittered drifted down from it.

“Thanks, Mabel.”

Hes- hes got this.


End file.
